Of Jumpers and Truths
by Captain Rilee
Summary: "What is that?" It took her a moment to figure out what he meant, she would blame the early hour but Sherlock would blame her lethargic mind. "It's called a jumper, Sherlock." (Femlock genderbend Joanna Watson at your service.)


There is no way I am clever enough to own Sherlock. Many thanks to the most clever and supportive beta EVA Artsychick. You rock!

I spotted a rather interesting sweater in a shop window and this story was born...

Enjoy!

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He didn't bother looking up from his book when he heard Joanna's tread on the stairs—his perch on the couch was altogether too comfortable and his research too absorbing to waste energy on morning niceties.

"Tea?" she called from the kitchen.

"Lovely," he responded.

It suddenly occurred to him that making tea might be difficult this particular morning. In the midst of an experiment the night before, he moved most of tea things out of their usual cupboard. He had needed a cool, dry place to store his cultures.

"Use the stove top kettle." he added offhandedly.

He turned a page.

Joanna sighed and began opening various cupboards. "Only if you promise never to tell me what happened to the electric kettle."

He tore his eyes away from his book to scowl at her from the sitting room, a smart retort formed on his tongue only to die on his lips at the sight of her.

"What the devil are you wearing?" he barked.

Joanna was a little preoccupied. In her quest to find the second kettle she had scaled the shelves, stretched on tip toe, and was straining to reach the top of the cupboard. Her fingertips barely brushed the handle of the stove top kettle.

"Dammit—" She craned her neck to meet his gaze. "Sorry?"

"What is _that_?"

It took her a moment to figure out what he meant, she would blame the early hour but Sherlock would blame her lethargic mind.

"It's called a jumper, Sherlock."

"Where did it come from?" His tone was affronted, as if the clothing had somehow insulted him while her back was turned.

She climbed down from the shelves, deciding the tea could wait in light of this delightfully unforeseen reaction to her wardrobe. "Private boutique on Market Street. Flashing that shiny black credit card of yours had them tripping over themselves. You should have seen their faces 'Anything else Miss? Would you like a tea? Coffee? My first born child?'"

Sherlock scowled, "I hardly think _that_ is a suitable replacement for your lost jumper."

"_Lost_? You stole it from my bedroom you great git!"

"You saw the crime scene," he drawled, "Those strangulation patterns were consistent with a woven fabric. I had to test the markings and the elasticity of knits."

"And hopelessly destroy my favorite hooped jumper in the process…" she muttered.

In truth, she really wasn't that angry anymore. The replacement was far superior.

She smirked at him, "What?" She did a little turn, "Don't you like it?"

From the front, the black and white, striped jumper was the epitome of normalcy. The boat-neck flattered her neckline perfectly.

It was the back that was troubling him.

The fabric was nonexistent across the blades of her shoulders and upper back. The jumper plunged and flirted dangerously with the hidden line of her bra. A delicate braid, about thirteen inches long, held the knit together across her shoulders to prevent it from falling to her elbows.

Her femininity never ceased to surprise him.

He scoffed at the absurd garment, "I fail to see the point of wearing a jumper when a quarter of the product is missing—you'll catch your death."

"I do have a coat. I'm not going to go tromping through the snow in it."

Sherlock threw his book aside and entered the kitchen. Reaching up, he easily pulled the second kettle from its nest and the tea from its hiding place among the spices. All the while he eyed her new shirt with mistrust.

She relieved him of his burdens with a smart little, "Thank you sir." and turned away to set about making tea. He pinched a piece of the fabric to rub between his fingers.

"Quality. Cashmere. Tight knit," he murmured under his breath. Joanna ignored him, perfectly at ease with his invasion of her personal space and his deductive mutterings. He tugged at the string that held the entire piece of engineering together. "What's your plan of action should this flimsy piece of fabric fail?" He plucked at it like a violin string.

"I believe that's called a 'wardrobe malfunction'. It won't go very far." She shrugged, "Besides, there's not much to see besides the scarring."

Perhaps it was her lack of interest, or her blasé attitude about the repercussions of a possible "malfunction". It could be the soft feel of the cashmere juxtaposed with the violent scar that he knew lay just _there_ beneath the fine cloth. Or maybe it was the fact that Joanna had absolutely no bloody clue how charming she was. Afghanistan, a bum shoulder and her distaste of all things pink and frills made sure of that.

Whatever it was, it took no more than a second for Sherlock Holmes to decide to show her. He would walk her through it, just as he did at every crime scene. She would fight him every step, question each conclusion in turn, but she'd come round in the end. She always did. By the time he finished with her she would be able to look at herself with new eyes.

Sherlock always loved a challenge.

"I wouldn't say that…" he spoke, his voice low and laced with promise. Then he stepped into her, completely eliminating any semblance of personal space she might have had moments before. The lines of his body gently cushioned against the curves of hers. She stiffened immediately. Her hands stilled at the tea things.

He had her attention now.

"Sherlock—"

"I'd have thought you'd have learned by now that there is _always_, without a shadow of doubt, _something_ to see. Take your spine for example."

"My spi—" But speech left her as she felt his fingertips brush against her skin. A perfect straight line down her spine, as if counting each vertebrae in turn. Knowing Sherlock, he probably was.

"Ramrod straight. A soldier's spine. Respectful, even when it's not deserved. Strong, enough to carry burdens, physical or otherwise. Even…" His finger swept from bottom to top in one smooth stroke, alighting every nerve ending in the vicinity. "Dare I say? _Elegant_. Even as a soldier you are surprisingly graceful Joanna."

She struggled to find her voice, "How exactly—"

"Then there's your skin." His fingers fanned out and mapped every inch, finding each peak, valley, blemish and mark, in the expanse of her back. "As I said the day we met, no tan above your wrist. You're a working girl, no time for vanity and tanning beds. Your skin therefore is pale, but not sickly. Nor is it overly dry or oily. You almost never wear makeup. You eat well and take care of yourself, even if you don't take the time to indulge. A selfless individual that has more important things on her mind than vanity.

"And, of course, there's your scar," She lost her breath completely as his fingers brushed aside the fold of her jumper to reveal the puckered, waxy flesh of her ruined shoulder.

No one outside of the clinical professionalism of her doctor had ever touched her scar and, at the moment, it was the most startling sensation she had ever experienced. The skin was less sensitive from nerve damage; his touch felt less like a caress and more like a vacant pressure.

Yet _this_ was anything but vacant. This was where the bullet had shattered her career, her focus, her purpose and yet somehow placed her directly in the path of Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't ignore him then or now. He made damn sure of that. Pressed in close, touching her scar, his breath warming her skin, his scent invading her space and making her head thick with his nearness, his touch, his words, his voice—

Was still talking, "Obviously a bullet based on the wound but not a clean shot. It left a parting gift of torn musculature and destroyed nerves before going on its merry way." His fingers slipped over the sensitized skin of her shoulder and down just past her clavicle to graze the ruined flesh found there.

The entry wound.

"You're really very lucky it didn't hit your collar bone. Nasty business that."

"Missed it by millimeters," she responded vacantly; she was completely entranced.

His hand retreated to her back.

"Your scar demonstrates your bravery, shot in the line of duty. Hiding such a scar means you're either ashamed or humbled. In your case, both. It was part of the job. You don't like admitting weakness and you certainly do not enjoy calling attention to yourself. The fact that you are even wearing such an exposing jumper shows that you are growing more comfortable with its existence."

Was it sick and twisted that she could honestly hear his smile of satisfaction?

"You see I was right," he said gently.

"R-right?" She tried to shake off his spell, "About what?"

"There's always something to see. Imagine what I could gather if you actually had a 'wardrobe malfunction.'"

He was about to walk away and return to his research when she abruptly turned in his arms.

She never ceased to surprise him.

"Sherlock, I—That—" she stopped and took a deep breath. He waited, as patiently as he was able. "Thank you."

To her it was wholly inadequate. To him, it was perfectly satisfying.

"Try not to forget it." But his voice took the bite from his words.

"Never," she agreed.

Finally, they both turned away, he to his research, her to the tea things. But the sound of his voice gave her pause. "Sorry, what's that?"

"Under no circumstances are you to wear that around the Yarders. They think loud enough as it is. There would be no peace at all for working minds if you showed up in that."

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his unintentional (but was it really?) back handed compliment. "As long as you promise to keep that purple shirt of yours off the streets."

His surprised sputtering kept her laughing until the tea kettle started to shriek.

-fin

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